


My Dear, My Darling One

by Raphaela_Crowley



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Watches The Exorcist With Crowley, Crowley Sleeps On The Ceiling, Crowley Takes Credit For The Fuente del Ángel Caído, Gen, No Slash, No Smut, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley
Summary: Satan calls Crowley 'darling', Aziraphale calls him 'my dear'; Crowley mulls over these endearments - and his maybe not so vague saunter downwards from Heaven - during the sleepless night before he's supposed to meet Aziraphale in St. James's Park to discuss the antichrist.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	My Dear, My Darling One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Takes place the night before Aziraphale and Crowley meet in St. James Park after Crowley delivers the Antichrist to the chattering nuns.

_My Dear, My Darling One_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

Crowley loves sleeping. He once slept for almost a hundred years straight, only getting up once to use the lavatory. Sometimes he thinks he'd like to have another hundred year snooze – it was so refreshing – but then he thinks of the paperwork pile-up that was waiting for him after that last time, and the trouble Aziraphale got himself into with those half-witted Nazi spies in his absence, and decides that perhaps it's best to enjoy the earthly gift of sleep in relative moderation.

Not to mention, it's murder trying to explain to the other demons why he has no fond memories of the first world war. He could hardly tell Hastur, for instance, "Well, you see, I was _sleeping..._ Right... Look, I know demons don't need sleep, but you really should _try_ it, it's _fun_ ," now could he?

There are too many things afoot for another hundred year nap, besides.

If everything goes according to plan, with the Antichrist, there won't even _be_ another hundred years. They'll be lucky to get _eleven_. If the little brat didn't come into his powers early.

Of course, if he can count on getting Aziraphale to help counter his own influence on the child, try to bring it up good, as he was planning...

He's going to ask the angel tomorrow, when they meet at St. James's Park to feed the ducks.

Only, what if he says _no_? Crowley doesn't have a backup plan.

He can't say no. It's the end of the world, for Heav– for Hell's sake, not some little temptation he's asking Aziraphale to cover for him as part of the Arrangement.

But what if he _does_?

If he says no, where does that leave Crowley? He hasn't got anybody else to turn to.

Crowley loves sleeping, but tonight his worries won't let him. He tries everything. Every imaginable position on the bed, upside down, backwards, on his stomach, on his side, flat, propped on pillows, fetal position, open sprawl. The blackness of sleep won't take him. He tries sleeping on the floor, on the wall, then – finally – as a last, surreal resort – the ceiling.

He likes it up there, floating above his empty room, staring down at the crumbled bedclothes below.

It's like being a demon in one of those so-bad-it's-good horror films. Movie demons seem to love floating above things and moving objects just to take the piss out of people. Crowley, a real as corn demon, however, has never floated above anybody's room other than his own. What would be the point? What exactly does giving some boring suburban family a handful of cheap jump-scares do add a layer of tarnish to anybody's soul? Clearly screenwriters never think that bit through.

Then, of course, there's the whole gratuitous pea-soup thing in _The Exorcist_. Crowley took Aziraphale to see that when it came out in the 70s; the angel had finally agreed to spend some time with him that wasn't strictly necessary, wasn't a clandestine meeting on a park bench or atop a double-decker bus, provided they walked as opposed to Crowley speeding wherever they went in the Bentley. He'd promised Aziraphale an evening picnic. He lied. Mostly because he was pretty sure the angel had never actually seen a movie that wasn't _The Sound of Music_ – the only film his side seemed keen on – and was insatiably curious as to how the poor bastard might react to a horror film.

Also, he'd driven the Bentley to pick him up anyway. Lie number two.

The angel was quite put out, pouting and giving him a chastising look from the corner of his eye as he slid into the passenger seat.

But the point was that he got into the passenger seat at all. Crowley had considered this vast progress on Aziraphale's part in and of itself.

Aziraphale had stared at the screen with absolute, riveted terror for the entirety of the film, and until he flexed his plump hands – probably numb from clutching the armrest so tightly – and cleared his throat when the theatre lights came back on after the credits, Crowley was a little afraid he'd broken him.

His angel friend, face taunt and mouth drawn in, appeared a touch comatose. "You all right?"

"Can we come back and see it again tomorrow?" Aziraphale had asked as he'd risen dazedly from his seat.

Unexpectedly, Aziraphale enjoyed himself. He hadn't realised movies could make goosebumps prickle under your skin. Or make a scream catch in your throat. Or even, for that matter, that it was more fun to see a movie with a friend than by yourself. (He'd gone – on Gabriel's recommendation – to see _The Sound of Music_ by himself and spent more than half the movie's runtime looking down at an empty chocolate box in his lap with yearning, debating if knocking innocent movie-goers out of the way to get to the lobby – as he was in a middle seat, flanked on both sides – or else miracling additional candy into the box was the more acceptable course of action.)

Crowley, on the other hand, had found _The Exorcist_ rather sillier than he'd thought. He'd spent the majority of it, muttering "Wrong, demons don't do _that_ ," and "Oh, come on now, that's just ridiculous," and "What's that idiot priest even _doing_?" under his breath.

If it hadn't been a full theatre, he'd have wanted to throw his popcorn at the screen more than once – and probably would have done so.

In Crowley's dark flat, the whole room seems to spin on the axle of the world, flipped off course. There's nothing for it but for the demon to let his mind drift. Until sleep comes – _if_ it comes.

He remembers the way Satan cut into the radio when he asked – rather rhetorically – why _he_ was the one assigned to hand the baby Antichrist over to the chattering nuns.

_Because you earned it, Crowley... What you did to the M25 was a stroke of demonic genius, darling._

Darling.

The endearment leaves a sour tang in his mouth, burning the back of his throat.

Satan used to call him that all the time. They haven't actually seen each other face-to-face for 6,000 years. Not since the business with the apple. Not since 'get up there and make some trouble'. For years Crowley wondered if he'd done something to upset him – after all, Hastur got appointed a Duke of Hell, and he very pointedly didn't. He quickly worked out, however, that if he was actually in Hell's bad books – not that they had any other kind – he would _know_ it. They'd have made sure of that.

They really _did_ love him down there, in their sick way.

Somebody should have warned him, he thinks, eons ago, that Lucifer's love – and that of his followers – was conditional.

Or maybe they did. Maybe the angels said it and he wasn't listening.

Before the rebellion, they'd made it sound like some sort of free-for-all. Lucifer and the guys, smiling, purring, "We're just about to see to that whole job conditions and career advancement lark, coming with?"

"I haven't got anything else on for the rest of the afternoon, but–"

"We need you." Lucifer's arm had curled itself around his shoulders. "You ask the right questions, darling."

"Well," he'd conceded, melting, "I suppose the food hasn't been that good lately." It was nice to be noticed – nice to be _wanted_.

Only, Crowley hadn't actually wanted a rebellion, much less a Heaven-wide war.

He'd just wanted to know why – well, why _everything_.

Oh, he'd have settled for someone to listen to him complain about how that smug wanker, the archangel Michael, was always picking on him. She'd been a right bitch lately. Always putting down his work with some silky smooth remark that could be taken two ways, which he – apparently, inevitably – took 'wrong'.

She had even gone and called him out right in front of an entire platoon of snickering principalities.

Crowley vaguely remembers one of the principalities not laughing, sort of giving him an awkward, finger-waggling wave instead. At the time, feeling humiliated, Crowley didn't bother to acknowledge the gesture. All these centuries later, he wonders, a little guiltily, if that hapless angel could have been Aziraphale. He _is_ a principality, after all. And it seems like something his well-meaning friend would have done. No matter how he prods at the memory, the angel's face is indistinct, blurred in heavenly light. It might have been Aziraphale, it might not.

Anyway, complaining about the food, about Michael, didn't happen. By the time he realised where it was heading, he was too firmly on the wrong side of things to turn back. He'd asked the wrong questions, stood at Lucifer's side. He would never be forgiven that – not ever. Part of the job description.

Then the war, then the freestyle fall into a pool of boiling sulphur.

Crowley secretly hated every second of the war. He found himself hesitating. Repeatedly. He'd known the angels he was fighting – they were... They'd been... Some of them had worked with him, up in the stars, creating nebulas.

But there'd been Lucifer's voice in his ear, a high hum over the din of the raging battles. "You're with me still, darling, aren't you?"

As much as he can, Crowley tosses hard, back and forth, on the ceiling. This memory makes him squirm.

He recalls the last time he saw Lucifer – going largely by Satan then – in person, rather than merely hearing a hijacked voice on the television or the radio giving him a commendation or warning – usually both at once.

He wasn't Crawly yet, but the demons had stopped using his former angelic name. They needed something new to call him.

The earth was new, there weren't any people on it yet, only plants and animals and things. They'd all been lounging about in Hell; he'd just figured out how to make himself take on the exaggerated form of the animal that would come to be known as 'the snake'.

Crowley had only done the impression to be cheeky – he'd thought it would make Satan smile. _He'd_ get the joke, even if the other demons just stared blankly.

"Hey guys, guess what I am!"

Lucifer did smile, a slow half-grin. There was precious little warmth in it, though. The devil's cold expressions these days were nothing like the promise of unlimited affection Crowley thought he was getting when first joined up with the forces of darkness. It was getting harder and harder to please him. He only even bothered trying when he was on an assigned task or else drunk.

That day, he'd been drunk. No small feat on Crowley's part, either, since you couldn't get a decent drink in Hell any more than you could up in Heaven.

"Look," cried Ligur, "he's a creepy-crawly! A creepy- _crawly_."

Satan guffawed, the first real laugh Crowley heard from him since the rebellion didn't end according to his liking. "Come here, Crawly." He motioned at the empty space on his left.

Hastur glowered jealously as Crowley, in his regular form again but with some retained snaky movements, swaggered over and tossed himself down beside their lord and master, chortling like the ranks of Hell were all one big joke to him.

On drunken impulse, Crowley put his head down in Lucifer's lap.

"Lookit. Crawly's behaving like he's Satan's...one of them things God invented the other day..." Ligur meandered. "We modelled the Hell Hound on it – only our version's better. Wossat called, Hastur?"

"Cat, I think," Hastur said stupidly.

Crowley and Lucifer ignored them. Lucifer had, in a manner which began absently but quickly became very deliberate and possessive, been stroking Crowley's long red curls.

Suddenly the devil gave them a sharp yank.

"Ow," said Crowley.

"Sober up, I want to talk to you and I can't while you're drunk."

Obediently, he'd sobered. He hadn't liked it. His mouth had puckered automatically and he winced with momentary distaste. "Bleh. _Wot_?"

"You're devoted to me, aren't you?"

"Right. Yeah. Devoted." Crowley resisted the urge to rub his sore scalp. "Course I am."

Lucifer bent over, reached down, and gripped Crowley's face from under the chin, lifting it up so that their eyes met and locked. "You had better mean it."

"I do, Master." But he'd hesitated, stalled a moment too long.

"You hesitated." Was he talking about right then, or the war in Heaven? With him, you never knew.

"I didn't." He had, in both cases.

The devil's fingers squeezed his face. "If you _ever_ betray me, darling, understand Hell's retaliation won't be matter-of-fact, it won't be about mere sides. Not when it comes to you. It won't be about a war against Heaven. Oh, no, no, no, darling. It'll be _personal_. Got it?"

Crowley somehow managed a nod with his face still being held.

"Perfect."

He'd begun, shakily, to get up, expecting to be replaced by Beelzebub – Lucifer bloody _loved_ Beelzebub, as _she_ never gave him a moment's worry, unlike Crowley who was not yet as good at concealing his emotions – or somebody else. Dagon, perhaps.

"You will stay exactly as you were, Crawly."

Crawly. There was a name decidedly _not him_. He was beginning to despise the name already. All the same, he slunk back into place and put his head down again doggedly, his ear squashed against Lucifer's thigh.

You didn't just _refuse_ the devil. Especially not in Hell. It simply wasn't done.

"Tell me how grateful you are to be here, darling," Satan crooned. "How much happier you are in Hell than you ever were in Heaven."

Crowley told the devil what he wanted to hear.

Lucifer proceeded to stroke his hair again. It was a mockery of affection much harder to take while sober, but Crowley endured it until he was dismissed and – as he'd grimly anticipated – replaced with Beelzebub.

The shadows in Crowley's flat have changed position. Morning will arrive soon. He's still not asleep. Still hanging from the ceiling.

What a contrast between the way Lucifer calls him darling, as if the word is a shackle, as if he owns him, and the way Aziraphale sometimes calls him, with nothing but kindness, 'my dear'.

Crowley knows he's more Aziraphale's dear than he'll ever be Lucifer's darling. He knows which of the two is his best friend _really_. And he also knows that, even after 6,000 years, Lucifer won't ever forgive him if he finds out one of his demons loves his enemy – an angel – unconditionally. Particularly not Crowley. Even with no promotions ever being given him, he's still Lucifer's little pet in so many ways – has been since that fateful moment he went off with him at the start of the rebellion.

Of course, so much of it is bravado and outright bullshit Crowley invented in his reports.

"Are you sure," Aziraphale asked him a quarter century ago, with raised eyebrows, "telling Hell _you_ were behind the creation of the Fuente del Ángel Caído was such a good idea?"

He had been – at the time. They never checked up. And even if they did, how could they _prove_ he hadn't been involved? That it hadn't been his personal ode to the glory that was the fallen angel Lucifer?

"Really, Crowley, you don't think a statue of Lucifer with a literal snake coiling around it is a little _too_ on the nose?" Aziraphale had lifted a fingertip to his own nose and tapped it, resulting in a tetchy glare from the demon, who didn't want to admit that he might be right.

Satan would be furious if he ever learned Crowley lied about that stupid statue.

Or that – in reality – the Spanish Inquisition he was given credit for had upset him so severely he'd – after one peek at what was happening – run off to get as drunk as possible and forget every single horrible detail about it.

For someone who supposedly didn't want rigid rules about obedience and worship, who was all for bending the truth in general terms, the devil sure got angry about direct falsehoods posed to _his side_.

He was lucky they'd never found out he saved Aziraphale from getting his head chopped off during the French Revolution. Even with all his skills of imagination, Crowley hadn't been able to come up with a good reason – from their perspective – for doing that.

It was a good thing he could trust Aziraphale. For all the Angel's exasperating fussiness, Crowley never had to doubt that the thermos of Holy Water currently in his safe behind the sketch of the Mona Lisa was the real thing, the holiest. He'd never have trusted another demon on their word in regards to something like that – or any angel other than Aziraphale for that matter.

Crowley drops from the ceiling and lands on his feet. Daylight is filling the flat.

He's spent the night with his thoughts, wide awake.

He trusts Aziraphale, but sometimes he wonders if _Aziraphale_ trusts _him_.

He supposes he'll find out. If the angel listens about the Antichrist, if he agrees to his plan...

* * *

Here they are, Crowley and Aziraphale, feeding the ducks at St. James's Park.

Crowley is nervous, distracted.

A drake sinks, dropping under the surface of the water after nibbling some bread they've been throwing. It's his fault; he's accidentally willed the duck to drown without thinking.

Aziraphale gives him a look, speaks in a soft murmur. "Really, my dear."

There's no undercurrent to Aziraphale's affectionate term. Crowley is 'my dear' to him simply because he _is_. Because they've known each other long enough for him to be. Because the angel loves so indiscriminately even when he tries so very hard not to show it, his kindly affection bleeds out, like loose ink from an overly generous pen. There are no stipulations here.

Somehow, Crowley knows that, whilst he is technically on the side of Hell, and Aziraphale is on that of Heaven, the pair of them in their ineffable friendship, have formed a third option, a side of their own.

 _I'm on_ our _side_ , thinks Crowley, feeling strangely encouraged. He softens. _And our side wants this – just this – to keep going._

"Sorry," he says, as the drenched drake bobs angrily to the surface, spluttering. "I was forgetting myself."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Reviews welcome, responses may be delayed.


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